But once in this and walking about, how different it all seemed to
the world to which so recently he had been accustomed. For here, as
he had thus far seen, all was on a so much smaller scale. The depot,
from which only a half hour before he had stepped down, was so small
and dull, untroubled, as he could plainly see, by much traffic. And
the factory section which lay opposite the small city--across the
Mohawk--was little more than a red and gray assemblage of buildings
with here and there a smokestack projecting upward, and connected
with the city by two bridges--a half dozen blocks apart--one of them
directly at this depot, a wide traffic bridge across which traveled a
car-line following the curves of Central Avenue, dotted here and there
with stores and small homes.
But Central Avenue was quite alive with traffic, pedestrians and
automobiles. Opposite diagonally from the hotel, which contained a
series of wide plate-glass windows, behind which were many chairs
interspersed with palms and pillars, was the dry-goods emporium of
Stark and Company, a considerable affair, four stories in height, and
of white brick, and at least a hundred feet long, the various windows
of which seemed bright and interesting, crowded with as smart models as
might be seen anywhere. Also there were other large concerns, a second
hotel, various automobile showrooms, a moving picture theater.
He found himself ambling on and on until suddenly he was out of the
business district again and in touch with a wide and tree-shaded
thoroughfare of residences, the houses of which, each and every
one, appeared to possess more room space, lawn space, general ease
and repose and dignity even than any with which he had ever been in
contact. In short, as he sensed it from this brief inspection of its
very central portion, it seemed a very exceptional, if small city
street--rich, luxurious even. So many imposing wrought-iron fences,
flower-bordered walks, grouped trees and bushes, expensive and handsome
automobiles either beneath porte-cochères within or speeding along
the broad thoroughfare without. And in some neighboring shops--those
nearest Central Avenue and the business heart where this wide and
handsome thoroughfare began, were to be seen such expensive-looking
and apparently smart displays of the things that might well interest
people of means and comfort--motors, jewels, lingerie, leather goods
and furniture.
But where now did his uncle and his family live? In which house? What
street? Was it larger and finer than any of these he had seen in this
street?
He must return at once, he decided, and report to his uncle. He must
look up the factory address, probably in that region beyond the river,
and go over there and see him. What would he say, how act, what would
his uncle set him to doing? What would his cousin Gilbert be like?
What would he be likely to think of him? In his last letter his uncle
had mentioned his son Gilbert. He retraced his steps along Central
Avenue to the depot and found himself quickly before the walls of the
very large concern he was seeking. It was of red brick, six stories
high--almost a thousand feet long. It was nearly all windows--at least
that portion which had been most recently added and which was devoted
to collars. An older section, as Clyde later learned, was connected
with the newer building by various bridges. And the south walls of
both these two structures, being built at the water's edge, paralleled
the Mohawk. There were also, as he now found, various entrances along
River Street, a hundred feet or more apart--and each one, guarded by
an employee in uniform--entrances numbered one, two and three--which
were labeled "for employees only"--an entrance numbered four which read
"office"--and entrances five and six appeared to be devoted to freight
receipts and shipments.
Clyde made his way to the office portion and finding no one to hinder
him, passed through two sets of swinging doors and found himself in
the presence of a telephone girl seated at a telephone desk behind
a railing, in which was set a small gate--the only entrance to the
main office apparently. And this she guarded. She was short, fat,
thirty-five and unattractive.
"Well?" she called as Clyde appeared.
"I want to see Mr. Gilbert Griffiths," Clyde began a little nervously.
"What about?"
"Well, you see, I'm his cousin. Clyde Griffiths is my name. I have a
letter here from my uncle, Mr. Samuel Griffiths. He'll see me, I think."
As he laid the letter before her, he noticed that her quite severe
and decidedly indifferent expression changed and became not so much
friendly as awed. For obviously she was very much impressed not only
by the information but his looks, and began to examine him slyly and
curiously.
"I'll see if he's in," she replied much more civilly, and plugging at
the same time a switch which led to Mr. Gilbert Griffiths' private
office. Word coming back to her apparently that Mr. Gilbert Griffiths
was busy at the moment and could not be disturbed, she called back:
"It's Mr. Gilbert's cousin, Mr. Clyde Griffiths. He has a letter from
Mr. Samuel Griffiths." Then she said to Clyde: "Won't you sit down? I'm
sure Mr. Gilbert Griffiths will see you in a moment. He's busy just
now."
And Clyde, noting the unusual deference paid him--a form of deference
that never in his life before had been offered him--was strangely
moved by it. To think that he should be a full cousin to this wealthy
and influential family! This enormous factory! So long and wide and
high--as he had seen--six stories. And walking along the opposite side
of the river just now, he had seen through several open windows whole
rooms full of girls and women hard at work. And he had been thrilled
in spite of himself. For somehow the high red walls of the building
suggested energy and very material success, a type of success that was
almost without flaw, as he saw it.
He looked at the gray plaster walls of this outer waiting chamber--at
some lettering on the inner door which read: "The Griffiths Collar
& Shirt Company, Inc. Samuel Griffiths, Pres. Gilbert Griffiths,
Sec'y."--and wondered what it was all like inside--what Gilbert
Griffiths would be like--cold or genial, friendly or unfriendly.
And then, as he sat there meditating, the woman suddenly turned to him
and observed: "You can go in now. Mr. Gilbert Griffiths' office is at
the extreme rear of this floor, over toward the river. Any one of the
clerks inside will show you."
She half rose as if to open the door for him, but Clyde, sensing the
intent, brushed by her. "That's all right. Thanks," he said most
warmly, and opening the glass-plated door he gazed upon a room housing
many over a hundred employees--chiefly young men and young women. And
all were apparently intent on their duties before them. Most of them
had green shades over their eyes. Quite all of them had on short alpaca
office coats or sleeve protectors over their shirt sleeves. Nearly all
of the young women wore clean and attractive gingham dresses or office
slips. And all about this central space, which was partitionless and
supported by round white columns, were offices labeled with the names
of the various minor officials and executives of the company--Mr.
Smillie, Mr. Latch, Mr. Gotboy, Mr. Burkey.
Since the telephone girl had said that Mr. Gilbert Griffiths was at
the extreme rear, Clyde, without much hesitation, made his way along
the railed-off aisle to that quarter, where upon a half-open door he
read: "Mr. Gilbert Griffiths, Sec'y." He paused, uncertain whether to
walk in or not, and then proceeded to tap. At once a sharp, penetrating
voice called: "Come," and he entered and faced a youth who looked,
if anything, smaller and a little older and certainly much colder
and shrewder than himself--such a youth, in short, as Clyde would
have liked to imagine himself to be--trained in an executive sense,
apparently authoritative and efficient. He was dressed, as Clyde noted
at once, in a bright gray suit of a very pronounced pattern, for it
was once more approaching spring. His hair, of a lighter shade than
Clyde's, was brushed and glazed most smoothly back from his temples
and forehead, and his eyes, which Clyde, from the moment he had opened
the door had felt drilling him, were of a clear, liquid, grayish-green
blue. He had on a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses which he wore at
his desk only, and the eyes that peered through them went over Clyde
swiftly and notatively, from his shoes to the round brown felt hat
which he carried in his hand.
"You're my cousin, I believe," he commented, rather icily, as Clyde
came forward and stopped--a thin and certainly not very favorable smile
playing about his lips.
"Yes, I am," replied Clyde, reduced and confused by this calm and
rather freezing reception. On the instant, as he now saw, he could not
possibly have the same regard and esteem for this cousin, as he could
and did have for his uncle, whose very great ability had erected this
important industry. Rather, deep down in himself he felt that this
young man, an heir and nothing more to this great industry, was taking
to himself airs and superiorities which, but for his father's skill
before him, would not have been possible.
At the same time so groundless and insignificant were his claims to
any consideration here, and so grateful was he for anything that might
be done for him, that he felt heavily obligated already and tried to
smile his best and most ingratiating smile. Yet Gilbert Griffiths at
once appeared to take this as a bit of presumption which ought not to
be tolerated in a mere cousin, and particularly one who was seeking a
favor of him and his father.
However, since his father had troubled to interest himself in him and
had given him no alternative, he continued his wry smile and mental
examination, the while he said: "We thought you would be showing up
to-day or to-morrow. Did you have a pleasant trip?"
"Oh, yes, very," replied Clyde, a little confused by this inquiry.
"So you think you'd like to learn something about the manufacture
of collars, do you?" Tone and manner were infiltrated by the utmost
condescension.
"I would certainly like to learn something that would give me a chance
to work up, have some future in it," replied Clyde, genially and with a
desire to placate his young cousin as much as possible.
"Well, my father was telling me of his talk with you in Chicago. From
what he told me I gather that you haven't had much practical experience
of any kind. You don't know how to keep books, do you?"
"No, I don't," replied Clyde a little regretfully.
"And you're not a stenographer or anything like that?"
"No, sir, I'm not."
Most sharply, as Clyde said this, he felt that he was dreadfully
lacking in every training. And now Gilbert Griffiths looked at him as
though he were rather a hopeless proposition indeed from the viewpoint
of this concern.
"Well, the best thing to do with you, I think," he went on, as though
before this his father had not indicated to him exactly what was to be
done in this case, "is to start you in the shrinking room. That's where
the manufacturing end of this business begins, and you might as well be
learning that from the ground up. Afterwards, when we see how you do
down there, we can tell a little better what to do with you. If you had
any office training it might be possible to use you up here." (Clyde's
face fell at this and Gilbert noticed it. It pleased him.) "But it's
just as well to learn the practical side of the business, whatever
you do," he added rather coldly, not that he desired to comfort Clyde
any but merely to be saying it as a fact. And seeing that Clyde said
nothing, he continued: "The best thing, I presume, before you try to do
anything around here is for you to get settled somewhere. You haven't
taken a room anywhere yet, have you?"
"No, I just came in on the noon train," replied Clyde. "I was a little
dirty and so I just went up to the hotel to brush up a little. I
thought I'd look for a place afterwards."
"Well, that's right. Only don't look for any place. I'll have our
superintendent see that you're directed to a good boarding house. He
knows more about the town than you do." His thought here was that
after all Clyde was a full cousin and that it wouldn't do to have him
live just anywhere. At the same time he was greatly concerned lest
Clyde get the notion that the family was very much concerned as to
where he did live, which most certainly it was _not_, as he saw it.
His final feeling was that he could easily place and control Clyde in
such a way as to make him not very important to any one in any way--his
father, the family, all the people who worked here.
He reached for a button on his desk and pressed it. A trim girl, very
severe and reserved in a green gingham dress, appeared.
"Ask Mr. Whiggam to come here."
She disappeared and presently there entered a medium-sized and
nervous, yet moderately stout, man who looked as though he were
under a great strain. He was about forty years of age--repressed and
noncommittal--and looked curiously and suspiciously about as though
wondering what new trouble impended. His head, as Clyde at once
noticed, appeared chronically to incline forward, while at the same
time he lifted his eyes as though actually he would prefer not to look
up.
"Whiggam," began young Griffiths authoritatively, "this is Clyde
Griffiths, a cousin of ours. You remember I spoke to you about him."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, he's to be put in the shrinking department for the present.
You can show him what he's to do. Afterwards you had better have Mrs.
Braley show him where he can get a room." (All this had been talked
over and fixed upon the week before by Gilbert and Whiggam, but now he
gave it the ring of an original suggestion.) "And you'd better give his
name in to the timekeeper as beginning to-morrow morning, see?"
"Yes, sir," bowed Whiggam deferentially. "Is that all?"
"Yes, that's all," concluded Gilbert smartly. "You go with Whiggam, Mr.
Griffiths. He'll tell you what to do."
Whiggam turned. "If you'll just come with me, Mr. Griffiths," he
observed deferentially, as Clyde could see--and that for all of his
cousin's apparently condescending attitude--and marched out with Clyde
at his heels. And young Gilbert as briskly turned to his own desk, but
at the same time shaking his head. His feeling at the moment was that
mentally Clyde was not above a good bell-boy in a city hotel probably.
Else why should he come on here in this way. "I wonder what he thinks
he's going to do here," he continued to think, "where he thinks he's
going to get?"
And Clyde, as he followed Mr. Whiggam, was thinking what a wonderful
place Mr. Gilbert Griffiths enjoyed. No doubt he came and went as he
chose--arrived at the office late, departed early, and somewhere in
this very interesting city dwelt with his parents and sisters in a very
fine house--of course. And yet here he was--Gilbert's own cousin, and
the nephew of his wealthy uncle, being escorted to work in a very minor
department of this great concern.
Nevertheless, once they were out of the sight and hearing of Mr.
Gilbert Griffiths, he was somewhat diverted from this mood by the
sights and sounds of the great manufactory itself. For here on this
very same floor, but beyond the immense office room through which he
had passed, was another much larger room filled with rows of bins,
facing aisles not more than five feet wide, and containing, as Clyde
could see, enormous quantities of collars boxed in small paper boxes,
according to sizes. These bins were either being refilled by stock boys
who brought more boxed collars from the boxing room in large wooden
trucks, or were being as rapidly emptied by order clerks who, trundling
small box trucks in front of them, were filling orders from duplicate
check lists which they carried in their hands.
"Never worked in a collar factory before, Mr. Griffiths, I presume?"
commented Mr. Whiggam with somewhat more spirit, once he was out of the
presence of Gilbert Griffiths. Clyde noticed at once the Mr. Griffiths.
"Oh, no," he replied quickly. "I never worked at anything like this
before."
"Expect to learn all about the manufacturing end of the game in the
course of time, though, I suppose." He was walking briskly along one of
the long aisles as he spoke, but Clyde noticed that he shot sly glances
in every direction.
"I'd like to," he answered.
"Well, there's a little more to it than some people think, although you
often hear there isn't very much to learn." He opened another door,
crossed a gloomy hall and entered still another room which, filled with
bins as was the other, was piled high in every bin with bolts of white
cloth.
"You might as well know a little about this as long as you're going to
begin in the shrinking room. This is the stuff from which the collars
are cut, the collars and the lining. They are called webs. Each of
these bolts is a web. We take these down in the basement and shrink
them because they can't be used this way. If they are, the collars
would shrink after they were cut. But you'll see. We tub them and then
dry them afterwards."
He marched solemnly on and Clyde sensed once more that this man was
not looking upon him as an ordinary employee by any means. His _Mr._
Griffiths, his supposition to the effect that Clyde was to learn
all about the manufacturing end of the business, as well as his
condescension in explaining about these webs of cloth, had already
convinced Clyde that he was looked upon as one to whom some slight
homage at least must be paid.
He followed Mr. Whiggam, curious as to the significance of this, and
soon found himself in an enormous basement which had been reached by
descending a flight of steps at the end of a third hall. Here, by the
help of four long rows of incandescent lamps, he discerned row after
row of porcelain tubs or troughs, lengthwise of the room, and end to
end, which reached from one exterior wall to the other. And in these,
under steaming hot water apparently, were any quantity of those same
webs he had just seen upstairs, soaking. And near-by, north and south
of these tubs, and paralleling them for the length of this room, all
of a hundred and fifty feet in length, were enormous drying racks or
moving skeleton platforms, boxed, top and bottom and sides, with hot
steam pipes, between which on rolls, but festooned in such a fashion
as to take advantage of these pipes, above, below and on either side,
were more of these webs, but unwound and wet and draped as described,
yet moving along slowly on these rolls from the east end of the room
to the west. This movement, as Clyde could see, was accompanied by an
enormous rattle and clatter of ratchet arms which automatically shook
and moved these lengths of cloth forward from east to west. And as they
moved they dried, and were then automatically re-wound at the west end
of these racks into bolt form once more upon a wooden spool and then
lifted off by a youth whose duty it was to "take" from these moving
platforms. One youth, as Clyde saw, "took" from two of these tracks
at the west end, while at the east end another youth of about his own
years "fed." That is, he took bolts of this now partially shrunk yet
still wet cloth and attaching one end of it to some moving hooks, saw
that it slowly and properly unwound and fed itself over the drying
racks for the entire length of these tracks. As fast as it had gone the
way of all webs, another was attached.
Between each two rows of tubs in the center of the room were enormous
whirling separators or dryers, into which these webs of cloth, as they
came from the tubs in which they had been shrinking for twenty-four
hours, were piled and as much water as possible centrifugally extracted
before they were spread out on the drying racks.
Primarily little more than this mere physical aspect of the room was
grasped by Clyde--its noise, its heat, its steam, the energy with which
a dozen men and boys were busying themselves with various processes.
They were, without exception, clothed only in armless undershirts, a
pair of old trousers belted in at the waist, and with canvas-topped and
rubber-soled sneakers on their bare feet. The water and the general
dampness and the heat of the room seemed obviously to necessitate some
such dressing as this.
"This is the shrinking room," observed Mr. Whiggam, as they entered.
"It isn't as nice as some of the others, but it's where the
manufacturing process begins. Kemerer!" he called.
A short, stocky, full-chested man, with a pale, full face and white,
strong-looking arms, dressed in a pair of dirty and wrinkled trousers
and an armless flannel shirt, now appeared. Like Whiggam in the
presence of Gilbert, he appeared to be very much overawed in the
presence of Whiggam.
"This is Clyde Griffiths, the cousin of Gilbert Griffiths. I spoke to
you about him last week, you remember?"
"Yes, sir."
"He's to begin down here. He'll show up in the morning."
"Yes, sir."
"Better put his name down on your check list. He'll begin at the usual
hour."
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Whiggam, as Clyde noticed, held his head higher and spoke more
directly and authoritatively than at any time so far. He seemed to be
master, not underling, now.
"Seven-thirty is the time every one goes to work here in the morning,"
went on Mr. Whiggam to Clyde informatively, "but they all ring in a
little earlier--about seven-twenty or so, so as to have time to change
their clothes and get to the machines.
"Now, if you want to," he added, "Mr. Kemerer can show you what you'll
have to do to-morrow before you leave to-day. It might save a little
time. Or, you can leave it until then if you want to. It don't make
any difference to me. Only, if you'll come back to the telephone girl
at the main entrance about five-thirty I'll have Mrs. Braley there for
you. She's to show you about your room, I believe. I won't be there
myself, but you just ask the telephone girl for her. She'll know." He
turned and added, "Well, I'll leave you now."
He lowered his head and started to go away just as Clyde began. "Well,
I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Whiggam." Instead of answering, he
waved one fishy hand slightly upward and was gone--down between the
tubs toward the west door. And at once Mr. Kemerer--still nervous and
overawed apparently--began.
"Oh, that's all right about what you have to do, Mr. Griffiths.
I'll just let you bring down webs on the floor above to begin with
to-morrow. But if you've got any old clothes, you'd better put 'em on.
A suit like that wouldn't last long here." He eyed Clyde's very neat,
if inexpensive suit, in an odd way. His manner, quite like that of
Mr. Whiggam before him, was a mixture of uncertainty and a very small
authority here in Clyde's case--of extreme respect and yet some private
doubt, which only time might resolve. Obviously it was no small thing
to be a Griffiths here, even if one were a cousin and possibly not as
welcome to one's powerful relatives as one might be.
At first sight, and considering what his general dreams in connection
with this industry were, Clyde was inclined to rebel. For the type of
youth and man he saw here were in his estimation and at first glance
rather below the type of individuals he hoped to find here--individuals
neither so intelligent nor alert as those employed by the Union League
and the Green-Davidson by a long distance. And still worse he felt them
to be much more subdued and sly and ignorant--mere clocks, really.
And their eyes, as he entered with Mr. Whiggam, while they pretended
not to be looking, were very well aware, as Clyde could feel, of all
that was going on. Indeed, he and Mr. Whiggam were the center of
all their secret looks. At the same time, their spare and practical
manner of dressing struck dead at one blow any thought of refinement
in connection with the work in here. How unfortunate that his lack of
training would not permit his being put to office work or something
like that upstairs.
He walked with Mr. Kemerer, who troubled to say that these were the
tubs in which the webs were shrunk over night--these the centrifugal
dryers--these the rack dryers. Then he was told that he could go. And
by then it was only three o'clock.
He made his way out of the nearest door and once outside he
congratulated himself on being connected with this great company, while
at the same time wondering whether he was going to prove satisfactory
to Mr. Kemerer and Mr. Whiggam. Supposing he didn't. Or supposing he
couldn't stand all this? It was pretty rough. Well, if worst came to
worst, as he now thought, he could go back to Chicago, or on to New
York, maybe, and get work.
But why hadn't Samuel Griffiths had the graciousness to receive and
welcome him? Why had that young Gilbert Griffiths smiled so cynically?
And what sort of a woman was this Mrs. Braley? Had he done wisely to
come on here? Would this family do anything for him now that he was
here?
It was thus that, strolling west along River Street on which were
a number of other kinds of factories, and then north through a few
other streets that held more factories--tinware, wickwire, a big
vacuum carpet cleaning plant, a rug manufacturing company, and the
like--that he came finally upon a miserable slum, the like of which,
small as it was, he had not seen outside of Chicago or Kansas City. He
was so irritated and depressed by the poverty and social angularity
and crudeness of it--all spelling but one thing, social misery, to
him--that he at once retraced his steps and recrossing the Mohawk by
a bridge farther west soon found himself in an area which was very
different indeed--a region once more of just such homes as he had been
admiring before he left for the factory. And walking still farther
south, he came upon that same wide and tree-lined avenue--which he had
seen before--the exterior appearance of which alone identified it as
the principal residence thoroughfare of Lycurgus. It was so very broad
and well-paved and lined by such an arresting company of houses. At
once he was very much alive to the personnel of this street, for it
came to him immediately that it must be in this street very likely that
his uncle Samuel lived. The houses were nearly all of French, Italian
or English design, and excellent period copies at that, although he did
not know it.
Impressed by their beauty and spaciousness, however, he walked along,
now looking at one and another, and wondering which, if any, of these
was occupied by his uncle, and deeply impressed by the significance of
so much wealth. How superior and condescending his cousin Gilbert must
feel, walking out of some such place as this in the morning.
Then pausing before one which, because of trees, walks, newly-groomed
if bloomless flower beds, a large garage at the rear, a large fountain
to the left of the house as he faced it, in the center of which was
a boy holding a swan in his arms, and to the right of the house one
lone cast iron stag pursued by some cast iron dogs, he felt especially
impelled to admire, and charmed by the dignity of this place, which
was a modified form of old English, he now inquired of a stranger who
was passing--a middle-aged man of a rather shabby working type, "Whose
house is that, mister?" and the man replied: "Why, that's Samuel
Griffiths' residence. He's the man who owns the big collar factory over
the river."
At once Clyde straightened up, as though dashed with cold water. His
uncle's! His residence! Then that was one of his automobiles standing
before the garage at the rear there. And there was another visible
through the open door of the garage.
Indeed in his immature and really psychically unilluminated mind it
suddenly evoked a mood which was as of roses, perfumes, lights and
music. The beauty! The ease! What member of his own immediate family
had ever even dreamed that his uncle lived thus! The grandeur! And
his own parents so wretched--so poor, preaching on the streets of
Kansas City and no doubt Denver. Conducting a mission! And although
thus far no single member of this family other than his chill cousin
had troubled to meet him, and that at the factory only, and although
he had been so indifferently assigned to the menial type of work that
he had, still he was elated and uplifted. For, after all, was he not
a Griffiths, a full cousin as well as a full nephew to the two very
important men who lived here, and now working for them in some capacity
at least? And must not that spell a future of some sort, better than
any he had known as yet? For consider who the Griffiths were here, as
opposed to "who" the Griffiths were in Kansas City, say--or Denver. The
enormous difference! A thing to be as carefully concealed as possible.
At the same time, he was immediately reduced again, for supposing
the Griffiths here--his uncle or his cousin or some friend or agent
of theirs--should now investigate his parents and his past? Heavens!
The matter of that slain child in Kansas City! His parents' miserable
makeshift life! Esta! At once his face fell, his dreams being so
thickly clouded over. If they should guess! If they should sense!
Oh, the devil--who was he anyway? And what did he really amount to?
What could he hope for from such a great world as this really, once
they knew why he had troubled to come here?
A little disgusted and depressed he turned to retrace his steps, for
all at once he felt himself very much of a nobody.